American Beauty American Psycho
by TwilightobsessedfanxoxoEdward
Summary: 20 year old medium, Elena, the adopted daughter of Billie Dean, is asked by Constance to move into the Murder House in order to settle the restless spirits and keep the old house from being torn down. *Takes place 20 years after Murder House ends*


Chapter One:

The clock on the blank walls of the classroom seemed to slow down the longer I penetrated it with my gaze.

Three more minutes…

Two more minutes…

I dropped my copy of "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac into my backpack as I tried to subtly pack up amongst my thirty rustling classmates.

Typically I loved my classes at UCLA, but today I was in a rush. I had a job to do.

"Class dismissed." My professor's voice cracked, weak after an hour and a half of lecturing to a disinterested room of undergrads.

As I rushed out of the building to the commuter student parking lot, a series of violent vibrations began to go off in my back pocket.

"I just got out of class, Billie Dean. I'll be there as fast as L.A. traffic will let me." I sighed into my phone.

"I don't care what you have to do, Elena. Just get here as soon as possible. There are dark forces at work in this house and I can't cleanse them all on my own."

"I'll be there soon. I promise. Be safe."

Luckily for me, Billie Dean, and whoever's house we were cleansing of "evil" today, the cars that flooded the streets of Los Angeles flowed smoothly leaving me in the driveway of our client's house in hardly any time at all.

I examined the house from my car. It was white and towering, with large paneled windows and a turret on either side, giving it the look of a miniature castle. Inside one of the large downstairs windows, I could see Billie Dean lighting candles.

 _Great. Another séance._ I thought bitterly. I knew that my adopted mother, Billie Dean, and I were supposed to be mediums, but holding a séance to contact spirits seemed too cliché, especially since Billie Dean and I could summon ghosts without all the theatrics. She however loved the drama so the séances stayed.

As I stepped out of my car, I felt waves of energy filling me up. This house was definitely the home to some unwelcome residents- a nice change of pace since most of the time Billie Dean and I found nothing, but paranoid elderly women when we went on house calls.

"Excuse me."

I turned around to see a small, frail girl standing knee high in grass on the front lawn.

"Hey there," I said softly. Poor thing had to only be five years old. Judging from the deep, black circles beneath her eyes and her papery white skin, her death must have been the result of an illness.

"Why is my grandmamma crying?"

"I don't know, sweetie. Let's go talk to her." I held out my hand for the little girl to grasp, but she hesitated.

"Every time I try to talk to her, she yells at me to go away," she whimpered.

"That's because she doesn't understand." I combed my fingers through her tangled brown hair, hoping that my touch would soothe her. "What's your name?"

"L-Lillian." Lillian's tiny green eyes shimmered with tears and I felt a slight ache in my chest. Young children were always the hardest to deal with. Most of them didn't even realize they were dead.

"Lillian, do you know what happened to you?"

"I was sick. The doctors told grandmamma to take me home and I went to sleep. When I woke up, grandmamma kept screaming at me. She said I was the devil."

"Okay angel, this is what we're going to do. We're going to go talk to your grandmamma together and I promise, I won't let her yell at you, okay?"

Lillian nodded her head and grabbed onto my hand as though she was holding on for dear life. Her small fingers were like ice.

I knocked on the door and, thankfully, Billie Dean answered. She took one look at Lillian and me and clapped her hands together.

"Ah the candles worked!" she exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes and squeezed Lillian's hand for support.

"You mean she's here." The old woman's voice wavered.

"Yes, ma'am. Your granddaughter is here." I let go of Lillian's hand and smiled down at her. "It's okay, sweetie. Go talk to her."

Lillian inched forward. "Grandmamma," she sobbed.

I looked at Billie Dean. "Dark forces at work, huh?" I muttered under my breath.

"Even the most talented get it wrong sometimes." She pursed her thin lips, watching the old woman in the corner, grasping her armchair so tight that her knuckles were turning white.

"Grandmamma, why are you scared of me?"

"Is that really Lillian?" The woman was looking at me now, her eyes wide with fear. "It's not a trick from the Devil?"

"No, that's Lillian. I can sense a demon from a mile away. Her soul is pure, I swear."

My voice must have been assuring enough because the woman reached out for the young girl, pulling her into her arms.

"Lillian, darling, I'm so sorry." She buried her face, leathery from years in the California sun, into her granddaughter's fragile shoulder.

"Can we cross her over?" I asked Billie Dean.

She nodded solemnly. "I think she understands now."

Lillian turned to us and gave us a toothy smile before vanishing in a blaze of golden light.

"She just wanted one last goodbye with her grandmother." I whispered, putting my hand on my chest. "Billie Dean, I need to go. Homework."

"I'll stay here and make sure Mrs. Warren is alright and then I'll be right home."

I was eight years old when Billie Dean adopted me. I had already been in the foster system for two years following my parents' brutal murder in our small San Diego home. Nobody had wanted me because I sat in my bedroom talking to thin air. Of course, I wasn't talking to no one…I just wasn't talking to anyone alive. Apparently the ability to communicate with the dead wasn't a trait most prospective parents wanted in their child.

When Billie Dean heard about the strange child stuck in the foster system who seemed to prefer talking to imaginary friends instead of actual people, she immediately recognized my unusual behavior as the makings of a successful medium. After that day I became her daughter and apprentice and she became my mother and mentor.

"Elena, I'm home and I brought dinner and friends!" Billie Dean trilled from two rooms away. I heard the faint murmur of voices and pushed myself up from my place on the living room couch, trying to guess which of Billie Dean's quirky friends would be joining us tonight.

"Jesus H. Christ!" I heard as soon as I turned the corner into the kitchen. "You're so grown up!"

An older woman stood before me, her short up-do tucked into a fashionable scarf. I vaguely remembered her, as if I'd met her in a dream. A young man, about my age stood behind her. My heart skipped a beat. He was insanely gorgeous, standing at about 6'0 with tousled light brown hair and glaring blue eyes.

"I'm sure you don't remember her because you were so young the only time you met, but this is Constance Langdon and her son, Michael. Michael's about your age."

"It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Langdon." I reached out for a handshake, but instead was pulled in for a hug.

"Please, call me Constance."

"Elena, why don't you and Michael go get acquainted in the living room while Constance and I set up for dinner."

 _Fuck._ Billie Dean knew how much I hated meeting new people, let alone being left to my own devices with them.

"Sure, come on Michael…" I sauntered into the living room and plopped back down in my seat, gesturing for Michael to sit beside me.

"So do you go to school?" I asked, awkwardly.

"Yeah, I'm a senior at UCLA."

"Oh nice. I'm a sophomore there. English major."

"Economics."

We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment before I piped up, "So is this a social call or are you and your mom here on business?"

Michael fidgeted slightly. "It's business."

"Your house has some unwelcome guests?" I probed.

"Not exactly…"

"Elena! Michael! Dinner's on the table!" Billie Dean hollered form the kitchen.

"I guess it's show time then."

The dinner table was dead quiet except for some short polite conversation and chewing noises. Billie Dean had picked up an assortment of chicken, macaroni and cheese, fried okra, mashed potatoes, and rolls from the corner market near our house. I was on my second forkful of mac and cheese when Constance finally cut to the chase.

"So I'm sure you're wondering why I called." She blotted the corners of her mouth with her napkin and glanced from me to Billie Dean.

"I assumed it was Tate again." Billie Dean said almost curtly, cutting into her chicken.

"Who's Tate?" I asked, receiving hard looks from around the table.

"Constance's late son." Billie Dean's voice held no sympathy, which surprised me. She was usually compassionate when talking about the deceased.

"It is about Tate, but not just him- the whole house." Constance looked at Billie Dean urgently. "It's been twenty years since the Harmon's lived there. Can you believe it?"

Billie Dean shook her head, without making eye contact.

"Well they can't keep anyone in the wretched place," Constance continued, "and now they're talking about just tearing it down. Too much bad mojo."

"That house is pure evil. I'd be ecstatic to see it go." Billie Dean hissed at her plate.

Constance slammed her drink down in anger. "Billie Dean, you listen to me. My family is in that house. My boys are in that house. If it goes, they might go and I _will not_ lose them. You have to help me. You're the only one who can. You and your girl." Constance barred her teeth at me in a terrifying attempt at a smile.

"What do you need us to do?" I inquired. My curiosity was spiked by the amount of hostility towards this mysterious house and its inhabitants.

"Move in." Constance begged. "Move in and convince the spirits trapped there to stop making such a riot every time a new family moves in. You don't have to stay forever. Just until you can calm them down."

"Why can't I just cross them over?"

"The house has some sort of curse on it. No one who dies there can leave."

"How many people have died there?"

"Dozens, sweetie. More than you'd believe. The place is pure evil, your mama was right about that one." Constance crossed herself as though attempting to ward off even the thought of demons. "Elena, honey, please. I'll pay for the house, the move, everything. Just promise me you'll do it. Save my boys. They're trapped there."

"I'll do it." I agreed, nodding my head slowly as I thought everything through.

"Elena." Billie Dean's tone was dark, forbidding. "Elena, very few people who go into that house come out. This is extremely dangerous."

"Billie Dean, I can do this. This is what you've been training me for, isn't it?"

Billie Dean smiled tightly at Constance. "I suppose it's agreed then. Get the affairs in order and Elena will move in as soon as possible."

"You're not going with her?" Constance took a swig from her drink, eyeballing Billie Dean from over the top of her glass.

"I won't step foot in that house again, much less live there, just to save your murderous son's-"

Constance sprang up from the table, dramatically throwing her silverware onto her plate.

"Come on, Michael, we're leaving. Thank you for dinner." Constance spat. She flashed a quick smile my way, "I'll be in touch, Elena."

As soon as they were gone, I turned to Billie Dean.

"Would you like to explain to me what the flying fuck that was all about?"

She merely shoveled a heap of mashed potatoes into her mouth and shrugged. "I guess you're moving into the Murder House. Do some research on who you're dealing with before you go over there. Start with 'Tate Langdon'."

I kissed Billie Dean on the forehead like she used to do to me when I was small and frightened of the world around me. "I'm going to go to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

 _Tate Langdon_ , I typed into my laptop's search engine the second I stepped into my bedroom.

A picture came up, obviously from a high school yearbook. Tate looked strikingly like his brother, sharing Michael's smile. I read the caption below the photo.

 _Nice, he shot up his high school and then was shot to death by cops in his bedroom._ An involuntary chill went through me and I laid back on my bed, putting my pillow over my face.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_


End file.
